


Hunt and Tyler (deceased)

by collatorsden_archivist



Category: Ashes to Ashes, Life on Mars & Related Fandoms, Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Crack, Deathfic, PG - Green Cortina, Time Period: 1973-1981 (Life on Mars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-05
Updated: 2009-01-05
Packaged: 2019-01-20 16:58:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12437457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collatorsden_archivist/pseuds/collatorsden_archivist
Summary: After vanishing for good when he managed to drive his car in to the canal, Sam is back. But why are there ghostly goings on?





	Hunt and Tyler (deceased)

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Janni, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [the Collators' Den](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Collators%27_Den), which was moved to the AO3 to ensure access and longevity for the fanworks. I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the Collators' Den collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/collatorsden/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** This bunny has been bouncing around for a very long time, almost crystallised during discussions under Loz's fantastic fic [Keep Me Holding On](http://community.livejournal.com/1973flashfic/47532.html) and then ran away when I attempted to grab. Now it's back and wants revenge. (Or, at least, a nice scarf…) With many thanks to my beta, Fionnabair who always knows how to keep a girl around…

Tyler was dead, to begin with.

 

 

Or at least, that was what Gene kept trying to tell himself. Three days the ponce had been missing. Three days since he tore after Talbot and Travers in an unmarked Capri and three days since the same car had been pulled out of the Irwell, Tyler nowhere to be seen.

 

 

They'd pulled in Talbot and Travers the same day, the diamonds still in their possession. Got them bang to rights for the heist. But neither would, or could, confess to what had happened to his DI. Gene had been all for a wide-scale hunt for his missing colleague, but pressure had been borne down from above for him to sign off the incident as a tragic accident, Tyler, somehow thrown from the car into the river, had been drowned and his body washed down to the sea.

 

 

Gene knew that, somehow, it was a load of bollocks.

 

 

He lay back in his too large, too cold bed and took another swig from the half-empty bottle of scotch.

 

 

"Christ, Sam. What I wouldn't give right now for you to be able to give me the answers."

 

 

"Well, I don't have them all, but ask away and I'll do my best," a soft voice from the corner of the bedroom said.

 

 

Gene gave a violent start and stared at the impossible apparition standing there as bold as brass. "Tyler! How the bloody hell did you get in here? You scared me witless! I very nearly dropped my bottle of scotch!"

 

 

"And we couldn't have that, could we Guv?"

 

 

"I thought you were dead. You've been gone three days. Where the bloody hell have you been? And what the bloody hell are you wearing?" Gene plonked the scotch on the bed swinging his legs over the side and stood upright, the purple paisley pyjama bottoms flapping around his ankles as he did so.

 

 

Sam looked down at himself and then, slowly assessing, at Gene. "I could ask you the same thing, actually."

 

 

"Tyler, white leather does not suit you at all. Whereas everything suits me. Now, before I wring your bloody neck, where have you been and why didn't you call in? Even Phyllis has been going spare."

 

 

Sam rubbed at his forehead. "I'm not sure. I didn't realise I'd been gone so long."

 

 

"You're not sure. We need a word, Tyler," and, fingers itching to feel the truth of skin under them, Gene strode over to Sam, grabbing at his lapels to pull Sam up against the wall, face to face.

 

 

Except instead at meeting leather, even white leather, he met with nothing but air and, unbalanced, crashed into the wall face first.

 

 

"Ow! I'm going to bloody well kill you for that, Tyler," Gene said, and spun round, gently probing at his nose with one hand, fist ready with the other.

 

 

"Too late, Guv," Sam stood there, held slightly tilted, a vague smirk on his face.

 

 

Gene swung with his fist, but obviously subconsciously recognising that all was not completely right with the world, did so less forcefully than he might and instead of the unconnected punch leading to a spectacular spin and fall, it merely unbalanced him a little. He stared down at his hand and then back up at Tyler, who stared back impassively.

 

 

"I'm dead, Gene."

 

 

"You're… you're…" Gene stuttered slightly, still rather bemused by the sight of his fist travelling through Sam's face, rather than landing solidly on his jaw.

 

 

"I'm a ghost, Gene. Yes."

 

 

"No you're not." Gene stabbed a finger at Sam, again blanching as the erstwhile digit passed into him as if there was nothing more substantial than mist there. "You're a bloody hallucination. You're a hallucination and I've cracked. Fallen off the sanity train. Lost my final marble. I've gone totally and utterly insane." He sat heavily on the end of the bed and stared mournfully at the floor. "I'm going to get kicked out of the force for sure this time."

 

 

Sam shrugged. "If it's any consolation, I was never kicked out and I'm pretty sure I hallucinated worse things than me. At least I don't go around carrying stuffed toys." This last comment was given in an almost indiscernible mumble.

 

 

"And you... You can shut up. I refuse to speak to a figment of my imagination."

 

 

"Gene," Sam whined slightly.

 

 

"No way. I'm not even contemplating thinking about speaking to you. I'm now going to imagine that you've gone far away and that you're no longer standing less than two feet away in, dear lord, those white trousers don't suit you either."

 

 

"Gene," Sam said more sternly.

 

 

"Nope. Can't hear anything, can't see anything either," Gene said loudly, picking his way carefully around Sam and around the bed, climbing back in and pointedly turning off the light.

 

 

"Gene, what are we going to do…"

 

 

" _There's an old mill by the stream, Nellie Dean! Where we used to sit and dream, Nellie Dean..._ " Gene started singing loudly, drowning out the other man's pleading.

 

 

Sam gave an exasperated snort. "Fine, if that's the way you want to act. But I'll be back."

 

 

A faint breeze ran through the room and all was suddenly quiet. Gene waited another two or three minutes before turning the light back on. The room was now very empty of any kind of apparition, though not quite every kind of spirit. He stared down at the whisky bottle forlornly, not knowing whether to blame the contents or not. Then he sighed and reached out for it, unscrewing the top and taking a large slug in one practiced move. If it _was_ the whisky's fault, then a little more couldn't do any harm.

* * * * *

Gene didn't get hangovers. Not really. Just cravings for most of the major food groups – grease, salt and tea. But he wasn't feeling too well the morning after. And it wasn't anything to do with the whisky and all to do with his little… dream. What kind of sick and twisted mind could come up with the idea of the ghost of _Tyler_ appearing to him in his own bedroom, for Christ's sake?

 

 

Well, no more. It was time to move on, bury the past and get on with the future. Which was why Gene was sat in his office, door shut, having just put his signature to the report of Tyler's death. That was it. Signed, sealed and almost delivered. No more hallucinations or wishful dreams.

 

 

"Hello, Guv."

 

 

Gene looked up and gave a heavy sigh. He reached into the bottom drawer and pulled out his reserve bottle of whisky. Taking a healthy swig, he finally met the gaze of his former DI. 

 

 

"I see I'm still hallucinating then." He screwed the top back on the bottle and put it back in his drawer, sitting back in his chair.

 

 

Tyler stood in front of the desk, hands in the pockets of his poncy trousers, and stared back. "Look Gene, I don't care if you don't believe that I really exist, but you have to help me. You have to solve the mystery of my death."

 

 

"All done and dusted, Sammy-boy."

 

 

"Really?"

 

 

"Just signed off on it, in fact. A tragic accident. You drowned in the noble act of pursuing of two suspects who had just turned over a jeweller's. Condolences to the family, etcetera. May you rest in peace. Please." The last was accompanied by a pointed glare.

 

 

"Drowned? It's a bit difficult to drown after being shot at point blank range in the head, Gene."

 

 

"And can you prove that one, Tyler? There's no body. Unless you can tell me where to find it."

 

 

"Unlikely. It's unlikely you'll find one."

 

 

"Buried deep, eh, Tyler?"

 

 

"Six feet, at least. So that's that then. I'm stuck haunting _you_ for the rest of eternity? Great."

 

 

"Hey, hang on. Who said anything about you haunting me?"

 

 

"Well, that's the deal isn't it? I come back, temporarily, so I can get you to avenge my untimely demise. And if you're not going to investigate, then I can't move on, can I? So I'm stuck here. With you."

 

 

"No. No. NO! Definitely not. I'm not going to be stuck with a picky-bloody-pain DI for the rest of my life. Especially one I can't slam up against a filing cabinet when he gets too big for his own boots! You can just bugger off. And take your godawful dress sense with you."

 

 

"I can't bugger off, as you so eloquently put it. I'm stuck here with you until you avenge my death."

 

 

 

This last comment was accompanied by a dramatic sigh, the sheer fakedness of which set Gene's teeth on edge.

 

 

"You buggered off last night."

 

 

"Not exactly. I merely made myself invisible to you so you wouldn't get even more upset."

 

 

Gene froze. If Tyler had been there all night then he might have seen something he shouldn't…

 

 

"Don't worry though," Sam continued. "I did leave for a bit when you got out your copy of _Lovely Jugs_. Your sofa isn't the comfiest piece of furniture in the world, though."

 

 

Gene heaved a sigh of relief at that. "So, I'm stuck with you. Unless I can bang up the scum who did this. Right. Fine. Who did it?"

 

 

"I don't know."

 

 

"What do you mean, you don't know? You were there, it was the last bleeding thing you saw."

 

 

"He was behind me. He shot me from behind."

 

 

"And that's all? Fat lot of good you are."

 

 

Sam sighed. "To be honest, I'm not sure I remember much about it at all."

 

 

"Do you remember going after Travers and Talbot?"

 

 

"Yes. I remember losing them. I stopped the car. And then, nothing."

 

 

"You were out Salford way at the time?"

 

 

"No. I lost them around Trafford Park."

 

 

"But your car was found down in Salford."

 

 

"So, someone else drove it there."

 

 

"And you don't know who it was?"

 

 

Sam shook his head. "Guv, I was dead at the time. How the bleeding hell should I know?"

 

 

"You don't recall anything unusual before that?"

 

 

Sam frowned. "Nope. Though, perhaps if I look over the jewellery robbery case file, it might jog a memory or two."

 

 

Gene threw it, open, on the desk in front of Sam. "By all means, Sammy-boy. Jog as many memories as you want."

 

 

Sam sat in the hard chair opposite and bent over the file, pursing his lips as he scanned the first witness statement.

 

 

Gene put on a studied air, ignoring Tyler for the moment, but surreptitiously watched him, head bent low. Tyler looked the same as he ever did. Normal. Well, normal if you accepted his apparent new taste in nancy white togs and general air of Tylerness about him. Face creased in concentration as he pored over the file, taking everything in with rapid eye movements and occasional little huffs of breath as he read something interesting.

 

 

Tyler reached the end of the first page and, licking his finger delicately and pressing the paper with the damp pad to turn it over. Except his finger didn't seem to want to grip the paper. Indeed, it seemed to pass through the document every time he tried.

 

 

After a few moments, Tyler looked up. "Gene…"

 

 

Gene pretended to ignore him.

 

 

"Gene!" Tyler said a little louder.

 

 

Gene had, long ago, perfected a wonderful long-suffering sigh, but he normally used it sparingly. It was becoming more and more over-used now. Well, in the last seven years he'd known Tyler he'd had cause to use it a lot. "What?"

 

 

"Can you turn the page for me? I can't seem to manage it myself."

 

 

"You can't turn a simple page? Fat lot of good you are."

 

 

"You know nothing can touch me and I can't touch anything. Please?"

 

 

Gene heaved another sigh, but reached over, turning the page. "There you go, Gladys."

 

 

"Thanks." 

 

 

Gene was pretty sure that there were sarcastic overtones to that simple statement.

 

 

"You know," he said conversationally, "If you can't touch anything at all, how come you can sit in that chair?"

 

 

Sam looked up, frowning. "I don't know." He experimentally passed his hand over and through the back. "I've no idea at all," then he looked worried. "Oh shit," and with that he disappeared through the seat, landing sprawled on the floor.

 

 

Gene guffawed.

 

 

"You did that on purpose, you bastard," Sam said waspishly as he picked himself up.

 

 

"Just curious, that's all. Now, if you've quite finished pratting about, we've still got a murder to solve."

 

 

"I know. _My_ murder. It's hardly going to slip my mind."

 

 

A knock at the door silenced Gene's retort into a pointed glare.

 

 

"Come!"

 

 

Chris popped his head round the door. "Afternoon, Guv."

 

 

Gene was rather impressed at the way Chris ran a hazards check as he slunk into the lion's den. His gaze didn't falter as it passed over Sam, sat in the chair opposite, and Gene finally realised that his increasingly irritating companion was invisible to the young Detective Constable. Though, as Chris' eyes swept the desk for anything breakable – or alcoholic – Gene resolved to have a word with his DC for being a little over-obvious. But that discussion was for later. 

 

 

"What can I do you for, Chris?"

 

 

Chris proffered a stack of files in his hands. "I brought you the files you asked for, Guv."

 

 

"What files?"

 

 

Chris gulped. "Er, Ray said you asked for them."

 

 

"Did he now?"

 

 

Sam sat back in the chair, faint amusement on his face as he watched both men, silently.

 

 

Chris grinned nervously and placed the files on a small patch of almost-empty desk. "Yeah, Guv, he said that you wanted any case files that the Boss, er DI Tyler, was working on recently. To see who he'd pissed off enough to do him in."

 

 

"And why does he think that?"

 

 

"Dunno, Guv. That the Boss ever pissed anyone off? Or that he was done in?"

 

 

"He pissed me off every morning, just by walking through that door." Gene stabbed a finger in the general direction of the swing doors. "Why does my Sergeant think that Tyler was done… that is, was murdered?"

 

 

Chris hazarded a guess. "Because he pissed off a lot of people, Guv?"

 

 

"Aniseed!" Sam cried, triumphantly and somewhat randomly.

 

 

"Aniseed what?" Gene turned his attention to the grinning man in the chair.

 

 

"Annie didn't say anything," Chris remarked, a confused expression on his face. "She's still on compassionate leave, Guv."

 

 

Gene ignored him, still staring at Sam. "What aniseed?"

 

 

"The smell. I smelt aniseed just before my brains were blown out."

 

 

"Really? Hmm. Martin Randall then."

 

 

"Martin Randall?" both Sam and Chris chorused.

 

 

All this doubletalk was beginning to give Gene a headache. "A little toerag. Fancies himself a hitman for hire. This is right up his alley. Though, frankly, I'd be impressed if he could manage to hit his own foot."

 

 

"Guv, are you all right?" Chris asked, cautiously.

 

 

"Right as rain," Gene snapped. Then realised what he probably sounded like. "Look, Chris. Grab Ray and start going through these files. See if anyone had any contact with Martin Randall."

 

 

Chris stood up straight, a determined look on his face as he was given something Important to do. "Okay, Guv." And he grabbed the files, quickly making his way back to the outer office.

 

 

Gene watched the other man leave, the door swinging shut before he grabbed for his coat. Shrugging it on, he called behind him. "Right, Sammy-boy. While the wonderkids are checking up on his contacts, we shall see what the scrote himself has to say."

* * * * *

Martin Randall did, indeed, smell strongly of aniseed. Gene could never work out whether it was just an affectation or a not-very-effective way of disguising his halitosis. Of course, both conditions made questioning Randall rather more of a problem than most of the small-time thugs on Gene's patch.

 

 

Which is why Gene's preferred method of questioning in this case was from behind and in the open, questionee's arm twisted up the back, while Gene's other hand was occupied with bringing head and conveniently-placed wall together.

 

 

Sam stood to one side, arms folded, wincing every time bone met brick. So far, so usual.

 

 

"Did you do my DI?" Gene growled.

 

 

Sam choked a little, but stayed silent.

 

 

"I've no idea what you mean, Inspector." Martin's voice was thin and reedy.

 

 

"A little bird tells me that was you."

 

 

"Can't be a reliable witness, else you'd've arrested me."

 

 

"Let's just say it'd be difficult to prove in Court. But this isn't Court, and it's convinced me."

 

 

Randall struggled briefly and Gene pushed his head into the wall with slightly more force.

 

 

"Ow! Look. Let's say that someone did do your DI. It's more than likely that that someone wasn't directly connected. More like a gun for hire. In that case you'd not want the gun – you'd want the shooter."

 

 

"But the way to the shooter is through the gun. Especially if you bend it a bit…" Gene twisted Randall's arm a little further.

 

 

"Okay! Look. Word on the street is that it was a personal thing. Big. Nasty. A lot of stonewalling and quite a bit of pissing on each other's territory."

 

 

Gene glanced at Sam, who shrugged. He obviously had no better clue as to who it was. Gene thought about that for a moment, bouncing Randall's head a few times more because he could. After all, this scumbag _had_ killed his man.

 

 

"Doesn't matter. I want names. And I want them now."

 

 

"Don't know any, Inspector. That sort of thing happens through intermediaries. Code names."

 

 

"Right. And I want them. I want them now."

 

 

Randall turned his head and grinned macabrely at Gene. "What with disappearing corpses and idiotic coppers, I've had it up to here with you lot. You'll get nothing more from me, not now. Coopie promised me that." He turned his face back towards Sam. "See you on the other side," he hissed and with that Randall made a rather frantic grinding motion with his teeth.

 

 

Gene was confused, but Sam leapt suddenly towards the pair, hand out to smack Randall or grab his jaw or something. 

 

 

Being corporeally challenged, however, Sam's hand predictably passed straight through Randall's face and Randall started to convulse. Gene did think to start with it was in horror that Sam had tried to touch him, but then realised that Randall couldn't see Sam and therefore would be unlikely to react to such a thing. 

 

 

But by the time Gene had realised this, Randall had slumped down in Gene's grasp.

 

 

"What did we do?"

 

 

"It's more what we didn't do," Sam replied, morosely.

 

 

Gene frowned and turned Randall's face towards him. It was unnaturally red. "Deliberate?"

 

 

"Cyanide." Sam confirmed. "The old 'cyanide in a false tooth' trick."

 

 

"Has anyone, anywhere, ever actually done that? Outside of dodgy detective fiction, that is."

 

 

"Not to my knowledge."

 

 

"So, either this is the most clichéd detective story in the existence of the world ever or you really pissed off the wrong guys."

 

 

"I'm going for option 'A'. I can't see myself having upset anyone that much."

 

 

"Oh, I don't know Sammy-boy. You've certainly got the touch when it comes to winding fellers up."

 

 

Sam pursed his lips and glared at his former boss.

 

 

Gene dropped Randall and clapped his hands together. "Right. We've an improbable death, a supposed vendetta the size of North Yorkshire and a bloke with a dodgy name. What kind of name _is_ Coopie anyway?"

 

 

They both turned started walking down the alley, away from the body of Randall, heading back to the Cortina.

 

 

Sam looked blank for a moment, then his face cleared. "I think he meant Coupé, Guv."

 

 

"Coupé? So what kind of name is _Coupé_ , then?"

 

 

"Come on, Guv. A coupé is a type of car design. So Coupé should have either something to do with cars or perhaps have a name that brings to mind cars."

 

 

"Right. Who has a grudge against you and reminds you of cars?"

 

 

"Gary Numan?"

 

 

Gene stared, nonplussed. "Someone you know from Hyde?"

 

 

"Nah, just a joke. He's a famous singer. What about shady car dealers?"

 

 

Gene reached the Cortina and opened the driver's door. He grimaced ruefully at the vehicle. "All the ones we know are banged up. Or dead."

 

 

Sam pretended not to notice the look and thought hard. "Oh! Randall mentioned dodgy coppers." he exclaimed. "Morgan! DCI Morgan."

 

 

"Morgans aren't cars, Sammy-boy. They're garden sheds on wheels."

 

 

"Expensive garden sheds on wheels," Sam corrected.

 

 

"Did they even ever build a coupé version?"

 

 

"No idea. But it has to be Morgan. It has to be. We should go over there and get it out of him."

 

 

"Steady on, Gladys. He may be a slimy git, but he's still a police officer. We need to do this carefully, gather more evidence. Our star witness," and at this, Gene indicated the alley with a thumb, "has just poisoned himself to death." He paused. "And I can't believe I just said all that."

 

 

Sam shrugged. "Well, I could go over there, to Hyde, and see what I can sniff out."

 

 

"You? Won't you be spotted?"

 

 

"Guv, I'm invisible to everyone but you."

 

 

Gene smiled slowly. "Of course. Perfect. Except you can't touch anything either. So how are you going to gather the evidence?"

 

 

"Well, if I can find something, at least then you know you can risk sending in Chris or Annie to get the evidence we need."

 

 

"Or Ray."

 

 

Sam grimaced, but kept his mouth shut. "Look, I'll get over there now. You need to do something about Randall there."

 

 

But Gene was reaching for the radio and, with a desultory wave, dismissed him.

* * * * *

Sam soon decided that tailing Morgan was the most boring obbo job he had ever been on. It was even more boring than hanging around in that dark, empty space he'd found himself in temporarily after his death. The man didn't have any family, any friends, not even any hobbies, and seemed only to be interested in paperwork. Sam remembered, back when he was a DCI, he'd be out on the streets where necessary. Doing the detective work. After all, any fool knew that detective work was, hopefully, at least fifty percent leg work. Gene was even more so, drinking in a variety of seedy pubs in his off-duty hours, trying to keep an ear to the ground.

 

 

Morgan sat behind his desk and read reports. Really detailed reports on all his subordinate's activities. And then he corrected them with a red pen.

 

 

Sam spared a thought for the other Sam. Sam Williams. Where ever he was or if he even existed any more. Whatever he was doing, he hoped the man was grateful that he no longer was subject to that red pen.

 

 

Morgan read reports on everything. Witness statements, forensic reports, reports on what the other detectives were doing, timesheets, even reports of debates on what colour the gents toilet should be painted. Every single one read, corrected, digested and filed.

 

 

The only thing Morgan hadn't got a report on, Sam was sure, was Sam's own death.

 

 

Morgan's day was strictly regimented. Up at half past six every morning, muesli and half a grapefruit for breakfast. Walk the half mile to the station, sit down at the desk at eight. Work steadily through the paperwork, break for lunch at twelve until one while reading the _Telegraph_ and eating a cheese and pickle sandwich. More reports until seven pm and then straight home with one last file. Dinner was inevitably beans on toast, one glass of whisky in front of _News at Ten_ and lights out strictly before eleven.

 

 

Sam had taken to finding Gene once Morgan had retired to bed. Until Gene reminding Sam that Morgan might go out during the night. Or talk in his sleep.

 

 

Sam suspected that Gene didn't particularly want him hanging around that much.

 

 

So he entertained himself by attempting to move things around. Morgan had certainly reacted yesterday when Sam blew in his ear. Though it could also have been that bluebottle that had been buzzing around.

 

 

Three days of surveillance and he hadn't got anywhere. Gene had taking ignoring Sam whenever he showed up and Sam couldn't work out whether Gene was still even interested in solving this or whether he was content to just file the accident report. Sam wasn't even sure which he would prefer. If Gene filed the accident report then they would never know what had happened. On the other hand solving the case would mean oblivion for Sam and peace for Gene.

 

 

On the fourth day, however Sam's luck had changed.

 

 

For a start, Morgan got up later, he managed a whole half-hour lie-in before getting up and going through his morning calisthenics. Then, oh joy of joys, Morgan had tea with his breakfast, rather than orange juice. Sam was getting rather excited about these little differences until he realised it was Saturday. He hadn't realised that Chief Inspector could be considered to be a regular-hours job before now.

 

 

Morgan took a leisurely breakfast that morning, unbending enough to have a whole grapefruit with his usual muesli, before pulling on some rather dirty overalls and making his way into the small garage that sat adjacent to his house. Sam wondered briefly whether the man had a prized old car there to tinker with.

 

 

Morgan didn't. What he did have was a bewildering profusion of bits of metal and tins of chemicals as well as other odds and sods more suited to a workshop. Morgan made his way over to the bench at the back of the garage and started to work on something. It was obviously delicate work and Sam soon recognised that while Morgan was obviously familiar with the theoretical principles of whatever he was building, he was less familiar with the practical construction. Morgan's forehead creased in concentration as he soldered pieces of metal together and he swore, quite genteelly, more than once as his hand got to close to the hot iron.

 

 

Sam blamed his newly dead state for not realising for quite a while what Morgan was up to. But when he finally did, he swore, much less genteelly than Morgan had done. 

 

 

A phone, which Sam hadn't noticed previously, rang and at the same instant the lights went out in the garage. Morgan, ignoring for a moment the blackout, automatically reached across the bench and picked up the receiver.

 

 

"Morgan," he barked.

 

 

Morgan listened in silence for a moment before speaking to whomever it was on the other end of the line. "It's all been sorted. Almost all loose ends tidied up. Nothing is going to get back to anyone. We're in the clear."

 

 

Another brief pause.

 

 

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Rathbone. Sam Tyler didn't even exist to begin with. It's not as if anyone is actually upset at his demise."

 

 

Sam huffed in exclamation at the mention of Rathbone. He leaned in closer to the phone, trying to overhear the other side of the conversation. But that seemed to be it, a few more 'yes's and 'no's and Morgan put the handset down.

 

 

Muttering to himself, Morgan groped around on the bench for something, perhaps a torch. "Oh yes, not all loose ends tied up yet, Rathbone. But they will be. You and all of 'A' division. Especially that bastard _Hunt_."

 

 

Morgan didn't find the torch. What he did find was the still-hot soldering iron. With a particularly foul curse he quickly pulled his hand away, knocking it from its stand and onto the fuse end of one of the several pipe bombs he had already assembled. 

 

 

The bomb exploded, detonating the others with it, blowing the doors of the garage off its hinges and, incidentally, turning Morgan into a well-cooked corpse.

 

 

Sam decided then and there that he didn't like the idea of being in the middle of an explosion. It might not have chargrilled him, dead as he was, but it did leave his head ringing for hours. He vanished back in to the void in the hope that a bit of peace and quiet would help.

 

 

It didn't.

* * * * *

If there was ever a reason for a copper to get out his best uniform, it was a fellow officer's wake. Even Ray had polished his shoes for the 'daft twonk', as he'd taken to calling his former DI.

 

 

Gene gave his speech, roused the troops one last time and then declared the party open. Watching his men go from strictly sombre to something more akin to a party atmosphere, Gene sighed in satisfaction at a job well done and, propped up against the bar of the Railway Arms, took a large mouthful of whisky.

 

 

"So it did turn out to be Rathbone then?"

 

 

Gene swallowed, then closed his eyes and counted to ten. Slowly. He opened them again, but Sam resolutely refused to disappear. "Oh yes. It was Rathbone. And as much as I thought we weren't going to be able to get him for it, turns out there's some karmic justice after all. Word has it that he slipped on the soap in the shower yesterday morning. Should be six months at least before he's fit to come back to work." Gene peered at Sam, suspiciously. "Nothing to do with you, I suppose?" 

 

 

Sam shrugged noncomittally. "You know me, Guv. Can't touch anything at all. What I can't understand is why Morgan and Rathbone were in cahoots. That doesn't make any sense either."

 

 

"Money, plain and simple," Gene sniffed. "Amazing how strong a glue that can be. And, of course, it didn't hurt them with us all wondering what on earth those two might have in common. If you hadn't gone over to Hyde and tailed Morgan personally, we'd've never figured that bit out."

 

 

"Pity his garage blew up, really. Without either Martin or Morgan to testify, the official explanation of drowning stands." Sam sniffed. "Bit unfair, that."

 

 

"Definitely a bit unfair. Who'd've thought you'd get such a nice write-up by Jackie Queen, though, eh?" Gene took another mouthful of whisky. "Anyway, isn’t it rather tacky to turn up to your own wake? I thought I'd finally got rid of you."

 

 

"Well, there's a problem with that, Guv. Turns out the gateway to the afterlife is, indeed, the grave. And I've not got one."

 

 

"Still no body, then?"

 

 

"Not for at least another twenty-six years, Guv."

 

 

"Tyler, you never made any sense when you were alive. I suppose it was far too much to ask for that you would start to do so after your sorry demise." Gene looked morosely into his empty glass. "So I'm stuck with you in this new airy-fairy form then?"

 

 

"But look on the bright side, Guv. Don't think of it as losing a partner, just think of it of gaining a specialist in undercover operations."

 

 

"One I can't discipline when they get it wrong. Or get on my wick."

 

 

"One who won't steal your last nip of scotch."

 

 

Gene nodded and looked slightly brighter. "There is that, I suppose."

 

 

"You know, Gene, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship."

 

 

"Sammy-boy, carry on like that and I swear I'll find a way to kick your arse all the way to the Pearly Gates, personally."

 

 

Sam just grinned.

 

 

_The End_


End file.
